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[Illustration: "Then the vigilants post themselves as a wall of
defence about the building."--page 423.]
OUT OF A LABYRINTH.
by
LAWRENCE L. LYNCH,
(Of the Secret Service.)
Author of "Shadowed by Three," "Madeline Payne,"
"Dangerous Ground," "The Diamond Coterie,"
etc., etc.
Chicago:
Alex. T. Loyd & Co.
1885.
Copyright, 1885, by
ALEX. T. LOYD & CO.,
CHICAGO.
Copyright, 1882, by
DONNELLEY, LOYD & CO.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter I. A Bad Beginning.
Chapter II. The Enemy Makes a Move.
Chapter III. Scenting a Mystery.
Chapter IV. Chartering a Dummy.
Chapter V. En Route for Trafton.
Chapter VI. Jim Long.
Chapter VII. We Organize.
Chapter VIII. A Resurrection.
Chapter IX. Mob Law.
Chapter X. Two Fair Champions.
Chapter XI. A Cup of Tea.
Chapter XII. A Big Haul.
Chapter XIII. 'Squire Brookhouse Makes a Call.
Chapter XIV. Mrs. Ballou's Pistol Practice.
Chapter XV. Preparations of War.
Chapter XVI. Fly Crooks in Trafton.
Chapter XVII. Southward to Clyde.
Chapter XVIII. A Sewing Machine Agent.
Chapter XIX. Haunted by a Face.
Chapter XX. Some Bits Of Personal History.
Chapter XXI. "Evolving a Theory."
Chapter XXII. Two Departures.
Chapter XXIII. A Shot in the Dark.
Chapter XXIV. Jim Long Shows His Hand.
Chapter XXV. In Which I Take Jim on Trust.
Chapter XXVI. The Trail of the Assassin.
Chapter XXVII. An Angry Heiress.
Chapter XXVIII. Jim Gives Bail.
Chapter XXIX. Vigilants.
Chapter XXX. A Chapter of Telegrams.
Chapter XXXI. Carnes Tells His Story.
Chapter XXXII. Amy Holmes Confesses.
Chapter XXXIII. Johnny La Porte is Brought to Book.
Chapter XXXIV. How Bethel was Warned.
Chapter XXXV. We Prepare For a "Party."
Chapter XXXVI. Something the Moon Failed to See.
Chapter XXXVII. Caught in the Act.
Chapter XXXVIII. "The Counterfeiter's Daughter."
Chapter XXXIX. "Louise Barnard's Friendship."
Chapter XL. The Story Of Harvey James.
Chapter XLI. A Gathering of the Fragments.
Chapter XLII. In Conclusion.
OUT OF A LABYRINTH.
CHAPTER I.
A BAD BEGINNING.
It was a June day; breezy, yet somewhat too warm. The slow going old
passenger train on the slow going mail route, that shall be nameless in
these chronicles, seemed in less of a hurry than usual, and I, stretched
lazily across two seats, with my left arm in a sling, was beginning to
yield to the prevailing atmosphere of stupidity, when we rumbled up to a
village station, and took on board a single passenger.
I was returning from a fruitless mission; and had stepped on board the
eastward-bound train in anything but an enviable frame of mind; and no
wonder! I, who prided myself upon my skill in my profession; _I_, who
was counted by my chief the "best detective on the force, sir,"--had
started, less than a week before, for a little farming settlement in one
of the interior States, confident of my ability to unravel soon, and
easily, a knotty problem.
I had taken every precaution to conceal my identity, and believed myself
in a fair way to unveil the mystery that had brought grief and
consternation into the midst of those comfortable, easy-going farmers;
and I had been _spotted_ at the very outset! I had been first warned, in
a gentlemanly but anonymous fashion, to leave the neighborhood, and
then, because I did not avail myself of the very first opportunity to
decamp, had been shot from behind a hedge!
And this is how it happened:
Groveland, so called, doubtless, because of the total absence of
anything bearing closer resemblance to a grove than the thrifty orchards
scattered here and there, is a thriving township, not a town.
Its inhabitants reside in the midst of their own farms, and, save the
farm buildings, the low, rambling, sometimes picturesque farm houses, or
newer, more imposing, "improved" and often exquisitely ugly, white
painted dwellings; the blacksmith shop, operated by a thrifty farmer and
his hard-fisted sons; the post-office, kept in one corner of the "front
room" by a sour-visaged old farmer's wife; and the "deestrict"
school-house, then in a state of quiescence,--town institutions there
were none in Groveland.
The nearest village, and that an exceedingly small one, was five miles
west of Groveland's western boundary line; and the nearest railroad town
lay ten miles east of the eastern boundary.
So the Grovelanders were a community unto themselves, and were seldom
disturbed by a ripple from the outside world.
It was a well-to-do community. Most of its inhabitants had "squatted"
there when the land was cheap and uncultivated, and they were poor and
young.
Time, railroads, and the grand march of civilization had increased the
value of their acres; and their own industry had reared for them
pleasant homes, overflowing granaries, barns "good enough to live in,"
orchards, vineyards, all manner of comforts and blessings. Strong sons
and fair daughters had grown up around them; every man knew his
neighbor, and had known him for years. They shared in their neighborhood
joys and griefs, and made common cause at weddings, funerals,
threshings, huskings, cider makings, everything.
One would suppose it difficult to have a secret in Groveland, and yet a
mystery had come among them.
'Squire Ewing, 'squire by courtesy, lived in a fine new white house on a
fine farm in the very center of the township. His family consisted of
his wife, two daughters, the eldest, eighteen, the younger, fifteen, and
two sons, boys of twelve and ten.
The daughters of 'Squire Ewing were counted among the brightest and
prettiest in Groveland, and they were not lacking in accomplishments, as
accomplishments go in such communities. Much learning was not considered
a necessity among the Groveland young ladies, but they had been smitten
with the piano-playing mania, and every Winter the district school-house
was given over, for one night in the week, to the singing school.
The Misses Ewing were ranked among the best "musicians" of Groveland,
and they had also profited for a time by the instructions of the nearest
seminary, or young ladies' school.
One evening, just as the sun was setting, Ellen, or Nell Ewing, as she
was familiarly called, mounted her pony and cantered blithely away, to
pass the night with a girl friend.
It was nothing unusual for the daughters of one farmer to ride or drive
miles and pass the night or a longer time with the daughters of another,
and Nellie's destination was only four miles away.
The night passed and half of the ensuing day, but the eldest daughter of
Farmer Ewing did not return.
However, there was no cause for alarm in this, and 'Squire Ewing ate his
evening meal in peace, confident that his daughter would return before
the night had closed in. But a second night came and went, and still she
did not come.
Then the good farmer became impatient, and early on the morning of the
second day he dispatched his eldest son to hasten the return of the
tardy one.
But the boy came back alone, and in breathless agitation. Nellie had
not been seen by the Ballous since the night she left home. She had
complained of a headache, and had decided to return home again. She had
remained at Mrs. Ballou's only an hour; it was not yet dark when she
rode away.
Well, Nellie Ewing was never seen after that, and not a clue to her
hiding-place, or her fate, could be discovered.
Detectives were employed; every possible and impossible theory was
"evolved" and worked upon, but with no other result than failure.
Groveland was in a state of feverish excitement; conjectures the most
horrible and most absurd were afloat; nothing was talked of save the
mysterious disappearance of Nellie Ewing.
And so nearly three months passed. At the end of that time another
thunderbolt fell.
Mamie Rutger, the only daughter of a prosperous German farmer; wild
little Mamie, who rode the wickedest colts, climbed the tallest trees,
sang loudest in the singing-school, and laughed oftenest at the
merry-makings, also vanished. At first they thought it one of her jokes,
for she was given to practical joking; but she did not come back. No
trace of her could be found.
At twilight one June evening she was flitting about the door-yard,
sometimes singing gayly, sometimes bending over a rosebush, sometimes
snatching down handfuls of early cherries. After that she was seen no
more.
Then ensued another search, and a panic possessed that once quiet
community. The country was scoured. Every foot of road, every acre of
ground, every hedge or clump of trees, every stream, every deserted or
shut-up building for miles around was faithfully searched.
And then Farmer Rutger and 'Squire Ewing closeted themselves together,
took counsel of each other, and decided to call in the aid of a city
detective. They came together to our office and laid their case before
our chief.
"If any man can clear up this matter, it's Bathurst," said that bluff
old fellow.
And so I was called into the consultation.
It was a very long and very earnest one. Questions were asked that would
have done credit to the brightest lawyer. Every phase of the affair, or
the two affairs, was closely examined from different standpoints. Every
possibility weighed; copious notes taken.
Before the two men left us, I had in my mind's eye a tolerably fair map
of Groveland, and in my memory, safely stowed away, the names of many
Grovelanders, together with various minute, and seemingly irrelevant,
items concerning the families, and nearest friends and neighbors, of the
two bereaved fathers.
They fully perceived the necessity for perfect secrecy, and great
caution. And I felt assured that no word or sign from them would betray
my identity and actual business when, a few days later, I should appear
in Groveland.
It was a strange case; one of the sort that had a wonderful fascination
for me; one of the sort that once entered upon, absorbed me soul and
body, sleeping or waking, day and night, for I was an enthusiast in my
profession.
After waiting a few days I set out for the scene of the mystery. I did
not take the most direct route to reach my destination, but went by a
circuitous way to a small town west of the place, and so tramped into
it, coming, not from the city, but from the opposite direction.
My arrival was as unobtrusive as I could make it, and I carried my
wardrobe in a somewhat dusty bundle, swung across my shoulder by a
strap.
I had assumed the character of a Swede in search of employment, and my
accent and general _ensemble_ were perfect in their way.
Perseveringly I trudged from farm to farm, meeting sometimes with
kindness, and being as often very briefly dismissed, or ordered off for
a tramp. But no one was in need of a man until I arrived at the widow
Ballou's.
This good woman, who was a better farmer than some of her male
neighbors, and who evidently had an eye to the saving of dollars and
cents, listened quite indifferently to my little story while I told how
long I had looked for work, and how I had been willing to labor for very
small wages. But when I arrived at the point where I represented myself
as now willing to work for my board until I could do better, her eyes
brightened, she suddenly found my monotone more interesting, decided
that I "looked honest," and, herself, escorted me to the kitchen and
dealt me out a bountiful supper, for I had reached the Ballou farmhouse
at sundown.